The Company We Keep
by popsie
Summary: HIATUS Dumbledore is convinced that the workings of the dark wizard Talan Hereward is the only way to bring Voldemort down, the only trouble is the suicide mission that stands between him and the scrolls. Only one group can pull it off and if they put their past behind them, they might be able to survive. [D.H] [H.P.R] (Six of Crows inspired)
1. Chapter 1

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, a cup of herbal tea steeping in a bone china teacup to his right. By the light of a dripping candelabra, the old wizard was pouring over the rolls of half scorched parchment in front of him with a keen eye. The messy  
scrawl of a forgotten dark wizard had faded with age, but the information was new and exciting.

"Fawkes," he called for his animal familiar, his eyes never lifting from the paper. The bird swooped from it'shigh perch and settled itself on the old man's shoulder, the wizard paying his bird's long talons no mind as he read on for a few more  
moments. "This holds only half of the potion," he spat, shoving the paper away from him suddenly. It floated lifelessly to the hardwood floor.

The bird squawked as if in twin outrage. The old man had spent months searching for the works of Talan Hereward, a thirteenth century warlock who had created nearly a hundred spells and potions that were now illegal in the modern magical community within  
Britain.

"I need that potion. I need those instructions!" Dumbledore pushed himself from his desk with such surprising force that Fawkes was thrown into the air, his tail feathers settling to the floor, resting next to the scroll.

The wizard was furious. He had ordered a lower member of the Order, a young witch whose name he had could never recall, to endure what turned out to be a suicide mission for the scrolls. He had gathered intelligence from months of work, most of which  
had delved into darker techniques. The blood on his hands was not something new, the war had been ongoing for years, but the girl's accidental death had been painful and could have been avoided.

Dumbledore pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose with a sigh. He was being forced to play his hand. The war had always fluctuated in action. They had just come out of eighteen months of relative peace, but Dumbledore knew that the next  
few months would be crucial. The Light were only just winning, their intelligence and members just tipping that of the Dark.

The war affected every person differently. The leader of the Light had lost his humanity and Dumbledore had found himself isolated in his office most of the time, the wards keeping everyone but his most trusted followers out.

Dejected and annoyed, he turned his head and caught sight of a glint in the corner of his office. The wizard gripped his long robe and crossed the office, waving his hand and disrupting the miscellaneous items that were obscuring the object with ease.

His thin lips twitched and his bony fingers stretched out to caress the lid of an antique silver trinket box. Inside was a lone vial filled with a simple memory. Dumbledore lifted the glass to the shaft of moonlight filtering down into the center of the  
circular room. The silver substance danced like smoke in the pale light as it twisted and turned on itself. The memory was an idea; an unorthodox moment of inspiration caught within time in between his forefinger and thumb.

Dumbledore grinned to himself, a wicked, cruel shine to his eyes as he looked up at his bird. "We will be stopping by Grimmauld Place soon," he told the animal. "There are things that need to be done."

* * *

Grimmauld Place was bursting at the seams, filled to the rotten eaves with members of the Order of the Phoenix, and these days, Harry Potter could hardly move for bodies and people stopping him on the staircases for idle chat.

The wizard couldn't recall a time when he hadn't needed to wait in line for the bathroom or cast wards around his crockery. The boy had never even _needed_ his own crockery before the war.

The Order had organically split into two halves during the recent peacetime. One half, filled with the older members, lived in their own homes scattered around the country. The majority had never even been within spitting distance of any battle.

The second half, mainly students and those under twenty five, lived under Sirius Black's roof, adopting the Boy Who Lived as their personal leader. Harry, on the other hand, was a skilled fighter and knew how to handle himself and a team through a combat  
situation, something that lent power to his authority.

Harry shared a room with Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom on the fourth floor, but even though the boys were in hammocks and Hermione in a single bed, the room was hardly spacious. It used to be only Harry's, but the war had caused a surge in members  
of the Order, and Sirius had been forced to play host to nearly sixty people in a house that could comfortably fit only twenty-five.

The house was unusually quiet when the Gryffindor woke up. In a rare moment of tranquility, Harry just lay in his hammock, staring out of his window at the garden. The sun had yet to rise but Harry could hear gentle rain on the windowpane.

He reached out and pulled his glasses from their precarious perch on the string on his hammock. Above him, at a diagonal angle, was Neville. Harry listened to the soothing snores of the wizard as he rolled out of the hammock with practised ease. His bare  
feet made a soft thud as he came in contact with the polished floorboards and he winced as Hermione made a noise in her sleep.

He squinted through the dark, statuesque, to watch her roll over, her breathing settling once more. He exhaled slowly, knowing first hand the trouble she was having as she fell asleep.

Harry and Hermione had always been close friends, but as they underwent more missions, the more altered they became. Harry was paranoid and found himself asking around for anti-anxiety potions, whereas Hermione's kind heart slowly began to freeze.

Anybody who wasn't Harry, Neville or a few other select people were left with a guarded young witch who had developed an itchy trigger finger and had a dark arsenal locked away in her mind. Hermione had been instrumental to those higher up in the Order,  
but as time and the war progressed, her willingness to help diminished as she became a shell of the woman she had been.

Harry found himself alone in the kitchen for the first time in months. Usually, the wizard was competing for space at the table or elbowing others so that he could fill up his plate, but that morning he poured himself a cup of black coffee without having  
to worry about it being taken from under his nose.

The Boy Who Lived sat a the long bench, just right of Sirius' high backed chair like usual. His Godfather ran the house with strict rules, ordering around in fear of chaos if the teenagers were left to run wild.

Sirius Black's reputation as a murderer usually preceded him, but within the walls of his family home, the rumors had been stoked and expanded, a little white lie overcoming the man who used simple hexes to ensure everything ran smoothly. The permanent  
state of intoxication he kept himself in not only medicated the wizard but aided his godson with the daily runnings.

The younger members of the Order found themselves respecting and fearing the older man, and collectively acted as if his word was gospel, but it didn't take a genius to see the real leader. Harry was the true ringman of the unusual circus he had surrounded  
himself with daily.

The green eyed wizard had hated being thrust into leadership, but over the two years he had been in the unofficial position, the Order's numbers and intelligence had doubled and he thrived. Children of high ranking Death Eaters and neutral families alike  
had converted to the Light in favour of Harry's leadership, but it was something that came with a price.

As Harry sipped his bitter coffee, he allowed the sunrise to wash over him. He listened as the house came alive as soon as six o'clock came, hearing the noise before he saw it. Early risers greeted him as they helped themselves to breakfast, and a congregation  
had gathered in the hallway upstairs, demanding his attention. He glanced at his wristwatch, it was not even seven.

The noise level rose considerably and Harry ran a hand through his hair in annoyance, abandoning his cold coffee with a scowl. He moved easily through the house members as they parted for him, leaving him alone to deal with the situation.

Seamus Finnegan was the first person in Harry's line of sight, and he made it clear with a stinging hex.

"Shit!" the Irish wizard swore, his hand cupping his stinging cheek.

Those around him quickly shut up as Harry pushed through them to come face to face with his fellow Gryffindor. "What time is it Seamus?"

"Huh? It's like seven," the boy replied, still angry about the hex he had thought unnecessary.

"And what do you think you're doing, waking half the house up?" Harry's tone was flat and his annoyance was plain to see.

Seamus swallowed and glanced around. "Dean went out last night, said he'd received a tip off, but he hasn't come back yet." The Irishman couldn't meet Harry's eyes.

"A tip from who?" Seamus shrugged in return. In a fluid movement, Harry had the shorter man pressed up against the wall, his forearm applying light pressure to the boy's neck. "You know I don't like to repeat myself Sea," Harry hated having to use physical  
threats but the safety of the order and it's members was too high for him to be allowing solo missions without consent. He had to ensure that the Order listened to him, and he had found out that throwing his weight around allowed for a smooth leadership.

Seamus was slowly going purple when he finally met Harry's eye. "I don't know, I swear!" Harry applied a bit more pressure until Seamus began to beg. "Amelia Bones sent him a letter three days ago with a location and a code word!"

"This letter?" a voice drifted down from the stair case. Hermione had dressed in her Muggle jeans and was clutching a roll of partchment between her fingers with one dark eyebrow cocked. Seamus nodded as Harry let him go. "This forged letter?"

"It's not forged!" Seamus replied, his temper rising as Hermione descended the stairs and stood next to Harry.

Harry looked around at the gathered crowd and stamped his foot for attention. When he was sure all eyes were on him, he hoisted himself up, feet on the banister, his long body meaning he could steady himself with his hands on the ceiling as he stood on  
the wooden beam.

"Let this be a lesson; Amelia Bones was murdered whilst completing a solo mission a week ago," Harry allowed a ripple of whisper before he continued, making direct eye contact with a pale Seamus. "This is a forged note and because of it, Dean Thomas is  
probably dead. There are rules in place for a reason!"

"How can you be sure it's forged?" somebody asked.

"Probably a handwriting spell dummy," someone else answered them.

Hermione nodded and then turned, seeking out the Ravenclaw who had spoken. "This is not all fun and games Willis. Whilst you are having sleepovers and keep the whole house awake, the Death Eaters are rebranding and regrouping, with more intelligence and  
better strategies this time around. By targeting a boy who thought he was above the rest of us, they thought they would be able to crack the location of the Order and our next move."

Harry picked up straight from where Hermione had finished, "Nobody is more important than another. Nobody is to execute solo missions without having the backing of the Order. There are rules for a reason, and that reason is your safety. Ask yourself,  
where would you go if there was no Grimmauld Place, no safe house?" He dropped back to the floor, still standing a head above the rest.

The crowd burst into conversation as Hermione dismissed them, ordereing them down to the kitchen for breakfast or to start their chores. Harry watched her pass the note to Seamus who had gone deathly pale. He was being propped up by two other wizards  
who nodded as Hermione said something to them.

"Nicely handled," Sirius said from above them. Neither could ignore the beginnings of a slur. He pushed himself off of the wall and turned around, climbing the staircase. "My office, if you will," he ordered over his shoulder.

Hermione and Harry exchanged a wary glance as they followed him up, climbing until they reached the third floor. Sirius herded the two into his office after he unlocked the wards and pushed open the door. "Amelia Bones' body was found on the tenth, why  
did you not tell them as soon as you knew?"

"Thomas was getting too big for his boots," Harry muttered as he took a seat. He busied himself with picking lint off of his trouser leg.

Hermione laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Dean had been telling anybody who would listen that he was planning on conducting his own intelligence mission, trying to prove to McGonagall he should be allowed to do field work again," Hermione explained.  
"He was going to compromise the entire Order with his daft plan."

"So you let him go off on a suicide mission instead?" Sirius demanded, rounding on the pair with sharp eyes.

"Of course not, Charlie took care of him!" Hermione cried. "Dean Thomas is safe in the middle of the Romanian countryside, without the knowledge of any war at all."

Sirius let out a low whistle. "Merlin Hermione, what you just did to Finnegan was ruthless considering."

"But now his focus and allegiance has realigned and the worry has become obsolete, a 'thank you' would be nice." Hermione folded her arms and stared the man down.

Sirius shook his head, avoiding her piercing glare. "The pair of you need to discuss things with me more. I am left out of the loop too many times."

"Would you really have given us permission if we'd asked to obviated a man who was a minor threat and then sent him halfway across the world?" Harry retorted, his patience already wearing thin.

Sirius paused. "Fine, you've got me there, but anymore half-brained ideas are to be ran by me, is that understood?" Sirius had never put up much of a fight wherever the duo were concerned. He liked letting them run the household and only step in when  
higher Order members swooped in. This was merely pointless talk as the three of them knew that the teenagers were lying as the agreed to the promise.

"Well, be gone with you. Word is that some letters should be arriving soon, and a guest, and I am sure as hell not dealing with that," the wizard had already uncorked a bottle of whiskey as the teenagers left without saying goodbye.

Yes, the war had changed people, but the worst was yet to come.

* * *

Author's note:

SO this is my new story! It's based loosly on the plot of Leigh Bardugo's Six of Crow's novel. This time round, i will be banking up on chapters before posting so that there is a semi-structured posting formation. Please leave me a comment, rate or review  
to tell me what you think. They mean more to me than you will ever know!


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the afternoon sun had set, Harry and Hermione were equally at breaking point.

The news of Dean Thomas' supposed death had made its rounds of the house, and people were becoming ansty. Neville had been out in the November air since he had woken up, tending to his plants as a way of coping with the stress.

Dean Thomas' death meant that the Death Eaters were stronger than they had been in months. The period of relative peace was coming to an end, but for some, this was their first taste of the war as an Order Member.

Colin Creevey and his brother Dennis had never been in a mission. They had never known anything different besides Hogwarts. Harry had been bombarded with questions and inquiries from the siblings for the better part of the day. He had begged Hermione to help him but she had locked herself away to research little known defensive spells in the attic.

Harry had never particularly liked the Creevey brothers. They were loud and had never been taught about personal space or manners and especially after such a disastrous morning, Harry was struggling to keep calm.

"Harry, Harry, I think I can be really useful in the defensive strategy team!" Colin badgered him.

"Harry Potter-" Dennis had never dropped Harry's last name and it irritated the Wizard to no end, "Have you heard from Professor Dumbledore recently?" The question was muffled through his bedroom door.

Harry prided himself on being level headed and relatively calm in all manner of situations, but the mention of the Professor made his blood boil and his teeth clamp together. Harry had been examining a some fake identity documents in his room, ignoring the chatter that was the other side of his locked door, but within an instant he had ripped the door from its hinges and had his wand in the cheek of the youngest boy, pushing him so that he was leaning backwards over the bannister.

He whimpered as Colin gripped at Harry's wrist, shouting loudly in his ear, alerting the rest of the house to the commotion.

"Shut up!" Harry roared, spit was flying but he couldn't care. Red mist had descended and it was hard for the wizard to control it. "SHUT UP!"

"Let him go!" Colin replied, his voice shaky but he continued to tug on Harry's arm. "Harry, let him go!"

"Never mention his name around me, do you understand," Harry seethed in the crying face of the youngest brother. "Do you understand?" He bellowed once more. It was only then he felt the small hand on his heaving shoulders.

"Harry," Hermione murmured from behind him. He glanced down at her from over his shoulder before he pushed the Creevey's away, tugging Dennis back over the railing. Her soothing voice broke through to him and he paced backwards, putting distance between them all. "Go on, leave!" Hermione ordered the small curious crowd.

Harry didn't see her follow him into their room, but he listened from the bed as she locked the door. He felt empty and exhausted. Harry's broad shoulders began to shake as he bit down on the palm of his hand, a failing attempt to control the body-rocking sobs.

Hermione toes off her shoes and climbed onto her bed, allowing Harry to curl his long body around hers on the small, lumpy mattress. She patted his shoulder, natural mothering instincts making her soothe him.

"He shouldn't be getting to you like this," she whispered into the shell of his ear. He sniffed and reached up, ripping the frames from his tear-stained face so he could lay his head on her chest comfortably. "Harry, you need to block him out."

"Obliviate me," he croaked. Hermione bristled and the muscles in his arms tightened, his grip on her small body bordering painful.

"I can't," Hermione gulped. Harry could have kicked himself in that moment. "I am not putting you through what my parents went through Harry, no matter how terrible it gets."

"Hermione I didn't-"

"That spell is not in my arsenal anymore," Hermione's voice was cold and shallow and Harry suppressed another sob. Hermione was still grieving the loss of her parents, still coming to terms with the lack of grave and death that surrounded the family.

Unlike Lily and James Potter's bodies and their tidy grave in Godric's Hollow, Monica and Wendell Wilkins were living in the Southern Hemisphere, with no knowledge of their only daughter, suffering on the front line of a war.

"I am sorry," Harry breathed. She slowly relaxed under him but he knew that the salt in her wound would continue to hurt her into the night.

"So am I," was all she said, five or so minutes later when Harry's breathing evened out and he fell asleep.

* * *

Dumbledore stood in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, a frown on his face as Sirius bustled about, shooing children and teenagers from the room with threats.

"Where are Mr Potter and Miss Granger?" he asked, sipping at the lukewarm tea that had been poured for him.

Across from the Professor, a mud stained Neville Longbottom sat with his arms folded. Neville had become more wary of the old wizard after hearing about the true murderer of the Potter's and it made him wonder if he had known about Bellatrix's plan before she tortured his parents.

"I think they are upstairs," the answer was clipped and Sirius was staring at the boy from above the Professor's head. "I can go get them if you like," Neville added to soften the conversation.

Dumbledore held up a wrinkled hand, "No need, just tell me where their rooms are and I will go see them myself."

Neville shook his head, answering before Sirius could. "Our room is heavily warded Professor, and contains a lot of personal information, excuse me if I deny you the access."

Sirius sighed and hung his head as Dumbledore finally looked Neville in the eye. They refused to break eye contact until Sirius spoke up.

"I'll summon them Professor, no need to go traipsing through the house."

Dumbledore watched the silver of Sirius' patrous slink under the door frame and was reminded of his original need for a visit.

"Just pass this to them," he pulled two scarlet letters out of his robes. Dumbledore placed them on the table in front of him and stood up, groaning as his knees protested. "Oh, and a forewarning Sirius, those envelopes are jinxed." The tattooed arm reaching for the letters returned to his side.

"It was nice seeing you Professor, such a rare moment," Neville said cooly. He did not rise from his chair as the elder wizard apparated from the house. "Replace the wards Sirius," the order increased the tension in the room but Neville couldn't care less. His skin had been crawling at the thought of Dumbledore in his room and he needed to return to their little part of the house, as if to double check everything, all their belongings and research, were still there.

"This is still my house Longbottom," Sirius began as the kitchen door opened. Harry and Hermione were still looking a little disorientated as they sat down next to their friend. "Those are you letters," Sirius left the room without acknowledging his godson's red-rimmed eyes.

Hermione watched him go before she cast a locking spell on the door. One of her own creation that was hard to crack. It constantly changed form every minute and had three levels meaning it would take less time to flee than it would for the attacker to get it.

"I hate living here," she told nobody in particular as she used her wand to summon her letter. Her bare skin never touched the paper as she opened it. "They're from Dumbledore?"

Harry looked at Neville questioningly. "He was only here for about five minutes. Said he needed to see somebody else before the day was over."

"It's a meeting place," Hermione informed them. She set the letter down and looked up at Harry.

"What Hermione?" he asked, knowing there was more.

"Harry, it's for tomorrow morning at Spinner's End."


	3. Chapter 3

A previously abandoned outhouse of the outskirts of a Muggle town on the Isle of Man had been serving as home for Draco Malfoy for nearly twelve months.

The drafty shell of an old sheep's hut was all anybody could see and the inside was hardly better.

He had slowly repaired the leaking roof and had poured over a battered domestic-transfiguration book, from One faded cover to the other, until he could finally make decent furniture from pebbles. The grandeur of his childhood home was worlds away from his simple cot, armchair and table but it was his.

For the better part of a year, Draco had healed his broken body inside its protective walls, decorating and adding to the hut so that it resembled a house to some extent.

The footprint of the hut was modest. A simple kitchen had been fitted by the previous owner. A stone hearth held a large log burner that doubled as a stove. Draco's cupboards were rationed but he had bread and biscuits, packets that magically refilled themselves so they were never empty.

Draco had spent three weeks learning and failing to transfigure a rock into a sofa and when he had finally succeeded in making a comfortable settee, the legs were uneven and he sat at a slight angle. None of it mattered to him though.

The wizard woke slowly and peeled back several layers of blankets, shivering as he got up out of rickety bed, swearing as his arm began to throb and his back seized momentarily. Like every other morning, he practically dragged himself to wherever his wand had been left and cast the strongest healing charms he could remember. Only then could the boy think straight.

Draco reveled in the cool feeling of the spells, the way they lapped at his injuries like waves on a beach. He sighed contently and ran a hand down his stubbled face. The itch that had come with the slight beard had been purposeful, a self-inflicted punishment, but now when Draco caught sight of his reflection in the large shard of mirror he kept above his sink, all he saw was his father, fresh out of Azkaban.

After Draco had finished shaving, he relit the log burner and was boiling water in his copper teapot atop of it. Feeling settled at the crackling for the logs. The simplistic, muggle life he had found himself in annoyed the wizard at times.

Some days, he longed for the thrill of the war. The all encompassing rush of a battle, throwing hexes at somebody whilst dodging curses. The blood coursing through his veins as he acted as a turncoat for the Order and narrowly escaping missions with his life.

Then there were times when he felt trapped inside the memories. His mother's ice blue eyes piercing his very soul as he killed a nameless Death Eater during a battle, exposing himself. The scent of blood overwhelmed him and he was forced to breath out of his mouth, despite the fact he was sat around his small table in his hut on the Isle of Man. Draco fell asleep every night to the pains of his poorly healed injuries and the sound of his mother, begging for his life to be spared.

He wandered about the hut, tidying up after himself and waiting for the kettle to whistle. Just as the piercing cry broke the silence, Draco felt a shift in the wards that stretched out nearly three miles around the hut. He swore loudly as he dropped the hot kettle in the sink, reaching for his wand as the person trying to pass doubled their efforts.

A face appeared in the embers in the log burner to his left and Draco scrambled backwards as he recognised Albus Dumbledore peering up at his through the grated window.

"Draco Malfoy?" the face called out, sparks of ignited embers swirling as his lips moved.

Draco righted himself and went closer, all the while ensuring that he was not visible. "What do you want?" He wanted to ask the man how he had been able to make a fire call to the hut but Draco knew not to expose that weakness just yet.

"I have been trying to track you down for months Draco, where are you living now?"

"What do you want Dumbledore?"

The bushy eyebrows drew together and his forehead was overcome with flames. "I need to ask a favour of you Draco. It's a dangerous mission but you are the only one who could lead a team through the challenges that will surely face you."

"I am not some suicidal Gryffindor old man, and I am not some a team player available for hire," Draco replied with a scowl.

"Draco, if this mission goes according to plan, it will be the end of the war and Voldemort. You would be publicly outed as a member of the Order and return a war hero."

Draco scoffed, "nice, just what I've always wanted in life."

"Let me send somebody over. Harry, let me send Harry over with the details. Or at least meet him," Dumbledore was begging and the fact made Draco squirm inside.

The blonde shook his head and scoffed before he doused the embers with his wand, smirking as Dumbledore's face screwed up in frustration and he listened to his cry and the sizzle of the damp coals.

"I will pay Potter a visit if it is necessary," he told the empty fire despite knowing Dumbledore could no longer hear him.


End file.
